I felt like a bandaid: Chicago

 

… and not a particularly effective one.

Paul and I were recently in Chicago. It was wonderful to explore the city on bikes, hang out at the beaches and tour Frank Lloyd Wright properties. (If you want some hostel, coffee shop and brunch spot recommendations,  take a look here, and here).

But you know what was not so wonderful the trip?

This:

We were cycling back from the 31st Street beach, zig zagging our way northwest through the downtown area to get back to our hostel in Wicker Park.  At a stop light, we came across a woman who was crouched squat-like and leaning to her right. She was frozen in this position that looked extremely awkward to maintain.

My instinct was to help. But wrapped up in that instinct was a feeling of guilt. I “heard” judgement. I don’t know who’s voice it was, but I heard it loud and clear.

“Who does she think she is? White girl stopping to ‘rescue’ a black woman?”

In that moment of reaching out, I questioned whether my help might be met with anger.

Yet I listened to my instinct. I couldn’t just walk away.

I stopped and asked if she needed help.

“Yes, please.”

I asked if I could help her sit down.

She agreed.

As we both sat on the sidewalk, she melted into my support., leaning heavily back into me. When I shifted to ease the strain on my back, she said, “Where are you going? Don’t leave me.”

I told her she was strong, so I needed shift to support her.

I reassured her,

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She told me she lost her husband and mother, and again seemed concerned when I shifted.

“Don’t go.”

She couldn’t tell me where she lived, and said she was waiting for the bus.

She seemed quite drowsy and she wasn’t really forming complete sentences. Her speech wasn’t that clear. Frankly, she reminded me of some of my clients.

After a while talking to her, I noticed she was wearing a bracelet that said “fall risk” and she told me she hadn’t taken her dilantin and benzodiazepine yet that day.

I knew that dilantin was an anti-seizure medication, and later found out that benzodiazepine is one too.

A police cruiser was in the area.  I asked Paul to get the officer’s attention.

The officer came over and asked what was happening.  After sharing the basics, my attempt to tell him about her bracelet was met with his hand raised to my face and a firm head shake “no”.

Ok, so he needed to hear from her. Reasonable.

He had her get up and didn’t want me to support her, saying “if you can’t get up on your own, I’m gonna have to call an ambulance”

“Don’t take me to the hospital”, she pleaded.

He asked her  where he was going to take here. Where did she live.

A few incoherent responses later, she said “White Castle.”

The concern dropped from my face. “Great”, I thought. “She lives in a supported housing complex called ‘White Castle'”.

She made it to the cruiser, and the officer agreed to drop her off at White Castle.

“Are you coming behind us, m’am?” She looked out from the car.

“No”, I said. “But please take your medication when you get home.”

She nodded.

My relief turned to anger when I then Googled “White Castle” and discovered it’s a fast food restaurant.

So she wasn’t going home to be cared for. She was being dumped off somewhere. To what? Have a seizure? Be taken advantage of?

I can’t get the horrible thought out of my head that she might not have been safe that day.

And, as much as I realize the officer was working within the constraints of “the system”, it reminded me, again, of how broken “the system” is for those who are vulnerable.

Band aids can only temporarily stop gaping gashes.

And in this case, I sincerely hope that the sweet lady who ended up at White Castle that day made it safely to where someone could love her and help her out.

Cause love and compassion are so very powerfully healing.

Chicago Aug 2014 from jennifer hicks on Vimeo.